Meet Me at the Fair
by reading
Summary: Sam and Dean get caught in traffic. Strangers and Angels universe. Silliness.


_Meet Me at the Fair_

_I'm not sure when I started this, but I was reminded of it this afternoon as I saw busses loaded up with coolers and cars decorated with UT flags headed out of town for the OU game this weekend._

_(For those who aren't in the U.S. (or maybe more specifically in Texas or Oklahoma) tomorrow is one of the big football games of the season for the University of Texas and the University of Oklahoma. It's a long-standing tradition and the game is always played in Dallas, pretty much equidistant between the two schools.)_

_This has been a strange, sad week in Austin. And yet it could have been infinitely worse. I'll be honest and say that it feels almost like a miracle – in spite of the tragedy of this student's death – that we get to enjoy this weekend. As if the shock and fear of earlier in the week have made the joy of the game even sharper. I think it's the reality of what __might__ have been that has, in a strange way, added to the excitement of the game._

_I don't know if any of that makes sense. Evidently I needed to use the author's note on this particular story to do a little processing. It's just been such an odd juxtaposition of sadness/tragedy and excitement/celebration this week._

_This story has absolutely nothing to do with most of what I just said. :)_

_Hook 'em, Horns! Beat the hell out of OU!_

xxxx

"What the hell?" Dean's stunned exhalation brought Sam's head up from the computer screen he'd been staring at, trying to decipher his own hastily typed notes from their last hunt.

Sam glanced at his brother, then followed Dean's shocked gaze out the front windshield of the car, reaching out to brace himself against the dashboard as the Impala rocked to a stop. A long line of brake lights snaked along the highway ahead of them, disappearing into the distance.

Sam blinked.

They'd been deep in discussion, debriefing the last case and so had missed the logjam on the interstate.

Dean was peering unhappily down the road. "It goes on for _miles_," Dean said.

"Close to 100, I'd guess," Sam sighed, using his chin to gesture toward the back window of the Tahoe in front of them.

Dean tore his eyes off the horizon to focus on a closer object.

"Beat the hell out of OU," Dean read, his weary tone omitting the multiple exclamation points that followed the statement. "Mother f-," he dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel and banged it disconsolately several times.

"Friday afternoon of OU weekend," Sam drawled. "We are so screwed."

They were just north of Waco and there was no doubt in Sam's mind that traffic was gridlocked all the way to the state fairgrounds.

_Crap._

Dean was rubbing at his forehead and pulling his phone out of his pocket. The car inched forward a couple of feet. Out the open window, Sam caught the sound of voices and laughter. He peered down the line of cars and saw people hanging out of windows, chatting from car to car.

"This is your fault." The accusation caught Sam by surprise, and he turned to ask exactly how that was possible. But Dean wasn't talking to him. He was talking to Jo.

"Hello to you, too, Dean," Jo's voice was faint, but still audible from the phone. "What's my fault?" She didn't sound particularly concerned.

"This." Dean gestured impatiently at the cars in front of them, glaring as if he could _make_ them get out of his way.

"What?" she said again. "Where are you?"

Dean didn't seem to be listening to her. "Do you know what weekend this is?" he demanded.

"What weekend? I…"

The blare of a horn interrupted her, a musical rendition of—Sam reached deep into the recesses of his mind for it—"Boomer Sooner" cutting through the unexpectedly cool fall air. The responsive round of derogatory blasts of regular car horns (along with a faintly melodic "Eyes of Texas" somewhere in the distance) was almost deafening.

"Oh no," she said when Sam could hear her again. And started to laugh. "You're not on 35 are you?" Evidently taking Dean's stony silence as confirmation, she started to laugh even harder. "Oh honey! I'm so sorry!" But she didn't sound all that sorry.

With a growl, Dean chucked the phone at Sam, who caught it right before it went out the window. He bobbled it for a second, then put it to his ear. They gained a couple more inches.

"Hey, Jo," he said.

"Oh, sweetie," she giggled. "Honey, I really am sorry. We're not T-sippers in this family, so it wasn't on our radar."

"I wanted to leave yesterday," Dean said, jabbing a finger at Sam.

"Dean says he wanted to leave yesterday," Sam relayed, propping his elbow on the window and resting his cheek on the phone in his hand

"And _she_ made us stay. Tempted us and…"

"Yeah, you _made_ us stay," Sam passed along sarcastically. "Tempted us with one last load of laundry and one last home cooked meal and…"

"And _pie_," Dean accused suddenly. He paused. "She used _pie_ against us," he intoned, glaring woundedly at the phone.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Damn you and your pie," he told her.

"Yes," she said agreeably. "That makes sense."

Sam snorted. "Any ideas?" he asked.

"None at all. Sorry, sugar."

Sam sighed. "I'll pull out the map and see what back roads we can use."

"That seems like your best bet," she said. "Have you been to the state fair?" she asked.

"No," said Sam, opening up the glovebox and sifting through it for a Texas map. He was sure they'd gotten one recently.

"I tried those fried ding dongs one year," she said.

"Seriously?" Sam laughed.

"Oh, yeah. A friend of mine said there was fried _butter_ last year!"

"Fried butter?" Sam couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice. He tugged the map free of the box of fake IDs.

Dean was giving Sam a curious look.

"I know! But she said it was good," Jo laughed. "And I heard something about fried margaritas and even beer."

"Fried. Beer." Sam said doubtfully. He was pretty sure that was an impossibility.

"Fried beer?" Dean asked.

"Evidently," Sam said. "At the fair." He turned his attention back to Jo. "How do they do that?"

Jo didn't seem to know exactly, suggesting freeze-drying or liquid nitrogen. She and Sam batted a few additional ideas back and forth before they disconnected.

Dean tapped his thumbs thoughtfully against the steering wheel.

Three boys in the back of the station wagon ahead of them were waving frantic "hook 'em" finger-horns at them, and Dean raised an acknowledging finger at the kids. They cheered, bouncing up and down before moving to the side window to see if they could get a response from another car. Sam figured their folks had decided keeping the kids strapped in while they were making approximately 100 feet an hour wasn't worth the pain.

"You can get fried _beer_ at the fair?"

Sam bit down on a smile. "Apparently," he said, rustling the map out as straight as he could get it over his knees.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the cars in front of them. Actually hook 'em horned the kids in the station wagon this time.

He nodded his head, decision made.

"That I gotta try," he said.

_The end._


End file.
